Passing Bloom

Just a quick update on the Japanese magnolia we greet each day. This one is up near the Carter Center and marks the halfway, or turnaround, point of the morning walk.

Dangerous Book - Episode 35

May 16 Wednesday

Nap time. The game started after a dinner hour during which Billie and Allen ate salad  and a tuna casserole she made from a 1965 copy of The Northport Ladies Auxiliary Cookbook. I ate, what? A tuna sandwich.  

            Thinking about the break-in was making me restless. Unlike Professor Sergeant, I had not stolen anything that required my attention, and my head was a whirl.  I wanted more and I wanted to talk. But I needed to think. After letting Juniper out for a brief spell, I took out my bike, an old Rollins I’d liberated from the garage of a previous apartment, I started up 12^th Street. At University Avenue, I turned left, heading downtown with some notion of edging the river at the bridge to Northport. I had an idea I could get there and back, maybe stop midpoint on the bridge and watch the Black Warrior River slug by.  Instead, I turned right onto the Historic District.

            Tuscaloosa is riddled with historic districts that are each about a block long. Actually, everything from Caplewood to the river is lovely and ample. The streets are wide, the trees tall and the houses built for the tire and paper manufacturers and the university leaders. Department chairs, ancient professors and widows live in them now. Lawyers and a banker or two. Real estate queens and their moms. The young money is in Northport or on the way to Birmingham.

            And there is a condominium or two close to the river where Peter lives.  I wanted to see if he was home. I wanted to surprise him. But I didn’t see him.

            I did see Lura coming out of a unit on the ground floor near his address. I waved to her, she waved back. At Peter’s door I knocked and knocked, but he did not answer.

Today's blossom

I've been photographing just one of several Japanese magnolias we pass each morning.
Here is today's shot. She would appear to be molting, making room for the green to come.

Dangerous Book - Episode 34

May 14 Monday evening

This evening Billie and I sat on her slip of a porch drinking iced white wine and teasing her new black kitten with slips of paper on which were scrawled old recipes. Perhaps they retained the scent of butter and vanilla. Instead of dangling these over little Ink’s head, we were supposed to be sorting and culling for the cookbook project. I’d collected my own and hers.

“We’re going to need twice as many recipes as we can actually use,” said Billie, thumbing through a dog-eared copy of Ramblin’ Chefs from Georgia Tech. “If everyone sends in just their favorite recipe, we’ll wind up with desserts, casseroles and a five-bean salad.”

“I think we’re going to have to use everyone we get,” I said. “If we get too particular, we won’t sell as many.” And the project will spiral out of control. “Once we see what we can gather, we can go back to the best contributors and ask them to fill in. Or we can pull from these.”

“No, we can’t, these aren’t from the University.”

“Mmmnn. I bet Phoebe, Veronica and Mrs. Moth have cookbooks like these. It might be cool to pull from some of theirs,maybe update stuff, do some microwave and low-fat conversions…what do you think?”

“That’s fine. Plus, we can ask contributors for favorites from their own association cookbooks…”

“Sorority cookbooks…” I interrupted.

“Right and the alumni association. And the recipes tucked into cookbooks.”

“Veronica has a good collection,” I said.

“I never thought of her as a cook.”

I am an idiot! How am I supposed to know Veronica has a lot of cookbooks! I just remembered them because they were wedged on her bookshelf next to the Gone With the Wind first edition.

“Uh, well, she was a gardener once, she must have done some cooking as well.”

I sat back and waited for Billie to ask me how I knew about Veronica’s personal library. Was it silly to feel so guilty about my activities with Professor Sargeant? Would Billie think that I would break into her apartment as easily? I would not.

The cat Allan had christened Ink curled up on Billie’s lap and slept. I let the wine ease into my fraught mind. A few minutes of silences always seems longer when both sit back and let the heat and the green intrude, as one must in a garden or a hot climate. There’s no point in having a garden, in living under old trees, if you don’t let them distract you now and then with their whishing and their forecasts.

“Does John still think Veronica killed Astible?” asked Billie.

It took me a second to remember Professor Sargeant’s first name was John.

“How did you know that?”

“I was at the vet’s when he came by for the report.”

“You were just there?”

“Right. Friday, when I brought Ink in for her shots.”

“But, Astible died weeks ago. He got news then that said the death was from the brownies. From the chocolate.”

“The chocolate probably did kill her, but John found out two days ago that the brownies Astible ate were laced with digitalis.”

“With what?”

“Witch’s bells. Someone mixed up a batch of brownies with foxglove leaves and brought it to the game,” said Billie, looking grim. “I thought you knew. I thought you were helping him figure out if it was Veronica.”

“I thought I was helping him. But he seemed to take it for granted it was Veronica. She did bring those brownies,” I said, wondering if I should mention that Prof. S. had not told me about the foxglove. Digitalis, or foxglove, is a heart stimulant. It can keep you alive, or it can kill you.

“My father takes digitalis,” I said. “He started it in his sixties. When I was in high school I almost took some just for the hell of it.”

“You must have been a happy teen,” she said with the quiet sympathy I was beginning to find unnerving.

“Not particularly. I was just short of stupid; I know that. Something made me look it up in the dictionary.” The old blue Webster that lived on the floor of the hall closet. Our library.

“So you know what it can do.”

“I learned enough not to mess with it.”

“Actually, a lot of people drink foxglove tea with no bad effect,” said Billie. “But I think it’s very dangerous.”

This explained a good bit of the professor’s behavior in Veronica’s apartment. While I was supposed to be keeping an eye out the window (but was in fact trolling her books for first editions, he opened and closed every cabinet, rummaged through her spice rack, twisting jars and bottles of seasonings, offering me a sniff at a decorative jar labeled “Herbs de Province” that I could assure him was probably a souvenir of France.

In Veronica’s freezer---a fairly small space in need of defrosting---we found a stack of aluminum wrapped pans with no labels.

“They looked like leftovers,” I told Billie. “Or extras from the senior center or church.” Veronica often returned home clutching a bag or a styrofoam container.

“Did you leave it there or take it with you?”

“We were afraid to spend too much time so John took one packet and left the rest behind. He’s bringing it somewhere for analysis. Maybe back to the vet?”

Billie sighed and stood, stretching her arms, which held the kitten, high overhead. She tucked it under her arm. “Time for his pill,” she said and left me staring into space.

It Would Appear to Be Here, Spring that is

monday's blossom and friday's blossom

Off the Grid - Week 46

It's Monday. I don't know about the others (what shall we call each other? The uncubed?) but Mondays are potentially the deadliest days of the unemployed year. Because I'm working part time, for several months now, Monday's have been anxiety provoking but also artistically satisfying. I don't have to grade papers, I go to the Hang 'n Fold late in the afternoon for a short shift, so really, Monday's are kind of my day to just be.

I often have an art project, a blog update, chapters to revise and, of course, jobs to research. I try to stay off Linked In because it smells too obviously of fast-food breakfast and the gassy releases of an indulgent weekend. (In other words, it reminds me of my corporate days.) Too many shadows in black suits and electric blue shirts are vying on Linked In, for what, I don't know, but Mondays are busy there with silly updates.

I woke today, not once but many times, with the feeling that I have been treading water long enough and that I need to start swimming. At the 6 a.m. waking, thought I was directionless and therefore needed a map. I imagined the map and realized I would need several maps because I had several "journeys" ongoing and one set of instructions wasn't going to do it.

Art journey. Next stop is a show due to open May 6. Plenty of direction available for this life. There's a list of pieces to be finished and experiments and mockups needed. Time in the APS to be scheduled. Supplies checked. Designs constructed. I could spend all available spare time on this journey. I should.

Novel journey. Ah. Until very recently, I spent Mondays happily revising "I Want to Live Here" a mystery novel originally posted on this site. Revisions of chapters 1-19 are on www.authonomy.com and I am, or had been, posting one or two chapters a week. But not too many days ago, I crept into bed with the idea that I'm not a very good writer after all. The book is shallow and bare and I probably don't have either the heart or the skill to make much of it. It will not be the answer to my father's question: have you made any money lately? (He died in 1994 but his question persists.) Today's work was half-hearted at best. My writer hands are cold and my imagination clogged with fear and a kudzu of cliches.

Freelance journey. Three promising emails in the last month but no work. If looking for a full-time job is like trying to date on match.com, or fit in with the sons of my mother's church friends, flirtations with editorial directors on the prowl for freelancers is like sleeping with the ones you want on the first date and then wondering when the next call's going to come. (And I hope none of you fabulous people are reading this now, but if you are, hey, I'm available. Call me. Any time. I know you're busy and having a job is actually harder than not having one. Don't feel guilty. Not about me. I'm fine. Have a cookie.)

Full-time job. Yeah. Like who's going to hire a girl in her subprime? And hand over all that health insurance to someone who, statistically speaking, is going to need all of it in the next five minutes? Look, my mother died of natural causes at 91 and I am likely to do the same. I'm a bargain.

Hope this didn't seem like a rant. Readers never comment on rants.

Happy Monday to all of us.

Dangerous Book - Episode 33

Sunday night, a few days later (May 13)

Our gardens are established. Rain last night made weeding easy this morning. When I wandered out early this morning, coffee cup in hand, I found Prof. S.

“The weeds are quick,” he said, showing me a handful of tiny growth.

I bent to my own packed plot.

“I’ve got too much good stuff for weeds to find any room,” I said.

“Don’t you believe it,” he said, pointing at what I thought was the penny royal beginning to spread.

As we stood there arguing about it, watching Juniper follow her nose, Veronica emerged in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, dressed for church. It’s a comforting sight, say what you will, to see an elderly lady dressed up in hydrangea blue on a Sunday morning. Even if she is jangling a silver bracelet with one small charm.

Across the courtyard, Mrs. Moth emerged, slightly less crisp, but in a soft dress and matching bag and shoes.

As they walked off together, the professor and I exchanged glances.

“How long is their service?” I asked.

“Including donuts? Hour and a half.”

“Plenty of time.”

But the key, which Prof. S. had replaced under the hall radiator, was no longer there.

I turned to him. “Didn’t you return it?”

“Of course I did.” He looked frustrated and angry. Sitting next to him on the steps as close as we were I could feel a buzzing energy emanating from him. His heels tapped, his right knee jiggered annoyingly and he was starting to rub his hands together as if conjuring up images of Veronica plotting to kill his beloved dog. But even as the frown deepened across his face, he did not look defeated. He looked grim and determined.

“Do you think she knew we used it?”

“Looks like it,” he snapped.

“She might have used it and left it in a pocket.”

Or she might have lent it out or had the locks changed. She might have switched hiding places. I had a shrink once tell me there were a hundred reasons for anyone to do something. The one we’re so sure about is rarely it.

But the professor was sure Veronica had killed his little dog.

“Why are you so sure about this?”

But he just shook his head. “I can’t get it out of my head that she brought Dowling and Reverend Garland over the day I buried Astible and made such a fuss about our planting gardens. About my garden.”

“Well, it did throw the whole look of the place out of whack. But when she told me about the sale, she said that was why the gardens didn’t matter.”

“No body’s cared what this place has looked like for thirty years.”

In a way this was true. The church has kept up with maintenance and very very basic lawn care, but no investment has been made. I’d found my apartment through a referral, subletting it from a graduating design major in a hurry to get to New York. When I went for the key, walking down 12th street from the university strip, I almost missed it. Yet, the property is quite sizable.

“There’s something almost invisible about this place,” I said.

“It’s the institutional brick,” he said. “It looks like part of Bryce or the U.”

We sat on the steps like a couple of ten year olds at the end of a dull summer. Church- goers parked along 12th Street seemed to look at us askance. Prof. S. didn’t seem to notice, but I always feel a childish guilt. I do not go to church anymore. I don’t know why. I might have pondered this for the rest of the afternoon, but another thought intruded.

“So, why do you think that bracelet is so important?” I asked, when at exactly the same time, Prof. S said,

“Let’s check the back door.”

And we rose in unity, refreshed by the thoughtful interlude. You gotta let yourself dither now and again.

Juniper, locked in my apartment and annoyed at being left out, set up a racket at the kitchen door, which Prof. S. quelled with a word. He has the gift.

The common entry to the upstairs apartment was unlocked.

The stairs were clean and free of clutter. Veronica’s neighbor, a law student named Scott Hermosa, kept this back area for his bicycle, but it was not hanging in its usual space high on the landing. Scott usually left for the weekends, driving home to Mobile with his fiancée.

“He’s the perfect neighbor,” I said. “I never hear him.”

Prof. S. just grunted.

“I’ll bet he hears you.”

I wasn’t sure how to take this and did not reply. With an almost choreographed motion we both reached for the mat in front of Veronica’s kitchen door.

Nothing.

Prof. S. tried the door, but Veronica had been careful. Then he ran a hand over the top of the door jamb. Also nothing.

I ran a hand over Scot’s doorjamb. Ah ha! I was beginning to understand how Veronica thought. Though I didn’t know why she made the decisions she did.

When it did not fit Scott’s door, we looked at each other. Prof. S.’s narrow chest moved visibly. As his grin dawned, a kind of veil melted and I saw him 30 years younger. When the key slid into the lock and turned, a chuckle escaped him, its breath on my neck. He practically pushed me into the room.

Searching Veronica’s apartment was turning into an addictive pleasure. Like searching your parents’ room when they’re not around. You do it once to look for a birthday present and find an old photo. You don’t get caught and the thrill of unchartered territory in your own house compels you to return. You go back and uncover a letter, a spent bullet, a bankbook. You start to dream about the creases in the house; the blue and white suitcase in the crawl space behind your closet that one day isn’t there anymore. Had it ever been there?

This morning inside a Junior League of Tuscaloosa cookbook, I found the deed to this property. In the kitchen Prof. S. stared into the open freezer from which he pulled two trays of frozen brownies and cried, “Bonanza!”